And then the second lash of that cane, a little lower than her first. Her eyes opened wide as the pain sunk in, and her mouth opened. She knew the little squeal she made would please him, and she fought against it. She didn’t want to make herself so obvious, but she couldn’t help it. The squeal came, unbidden except by the pain.

Then the third stroke, and her hips began to weave, rising to meet each new stroke, and falling back against the table. Time passed, and the flogging continued. She began to babble, punctuated by cries of pain when the cane landed. She didn’t know what she was saying; it seemed to be in some language she didn’t know.

And later she’d lost count of the strokes; she’d even lost all sense of time. She floated, free, on waves of something that was warm like blood, but paler in colour. Her cries, when the cane landed, were softer, were like murmurs of love.

After what might have been an hour or a day or a week, she felt the prince’s hands on her hips again, the cane still held in his right hand. She opened her thighs a little wider, and cooed again, a different kind of stroke, as he entered her, taking her deep. All was fluid, inside her body and all around. She moved with him, rapturously, as he took her. He moved slowly so she could feel and savour every moment, every movement.

Later, she lay on him as he lay on his back on the kitchen floor. He looked up at her and played with her hair. “Take me to bed?” she said.

“No.”

“My prince?”

“From now on, you’ll sleep here two nights every week. The servants will be forbidden to enter this room. You will start the fires, and you will cook the morning meal.”

“Why?”

“Because you wish it. You will be naked while you carry out your tasks. No one but I may enter.”

“Enter … the kitchen? Or … me?”

He smiled, and reached over to smack her bottom. While she yelped – her bottom really did hurt, now she had fucked and come and laughed herself into exhaustion – he said, “I meant the kitchen. But both. You’re mine. You can put on your robe – the satin robe, like a lady – when it’s time to open the doors. The servants can take it from there.”

“How often do I do this?”

“Two nights a week.”

“Will you be with me?”

“Often. But while you are doing this, you are the lowest person in my household, is that understood?”

“Yes, my prince.”

He smiled again, the smile of a man who thought he was clever. The princess frowned. “How did you know? How did you work this out? Why – “

He smacked her again. And again. She could feel him becoming hard. Soon he would roll her over, onto her back, onto the gritty kitchen floor. “It’s as I said. Why doesn’t matter.”

(It’s not often I get to tell a complete story in just five episodes, one of them wordless, so it’s worth celebrating.)

But the time came when the princess awoke again, with her prince’s leg over hers, still her beautiful man even with his face slack with sleep and his mouth open. The last trickle of white juice on her hip had dried. He had released it onto her after he had softened slowly inside her and at last withdrawn. She moved carefully away, letting his leg slide off her and onto their down and silk marriage bed.

The movement reminded her that her hips still hurt, from the violence of his grip as he’d held her and bucked into her before he came. She smiled at the memory and kept still, waiting until the prince’s breathing returned to normal and he seemed deep asleep again. Then she carefully arose, as she felt compelled too do, and walked noiselessly down to the kitchen.

She took off her ermine and satin robe and stood there naked, glorying in the cold and grimy air. She caught a glimpse of her naked reflections in the shiny metal of a row of pots, and paused, looking back. The marks the prince had laid on her buttocks and thighs with the riding crop the last time she’d come here had faded. If she didn’t know where to look they would be unnoticeable.

She should feel pleased, she thought, that her skin was again immaculate, and that the prince had been happy with everything in her person and her behaviour. So why did she feel disappointed?

She opened the kitchen cupboard where she had stored her old, ragged dress. But then she started, shocked, as the prince’s hand caught her wrist.

“No,” was all he said.

“Ah!” She turned, and stared at her husband, mouth open. He had been feigning sleep, when she left their bed. He was naked, and erect. He held the cane in his hand. He’d looked at her, with meaning, when he’d put it into her wardrobe, but he had not used it.

“My prince?” Usually he was smiling when he found her, as though they had been playing cat and mouth, and the cat had won again. As it inevitably must. But this time there was neither triumph nor anger in his expression.

He pulled her to the kitchen bench, pushed her until the edges of the wood bit into her upper thighs. Then he pushed her down. The wood was hard and cold under her stomach, then her breasts and her face and arms. She shivered, not entirely because of the cold.

“Don’t move. Stay down till I say you can get up.” His voice was stone, like his face.

“I’m sorry, my prince. My husband. I love you! I don’t know why I – “

But he interrupted. “Why doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter at all, any more. Now, if you want to stay married, stay over this bench.”

Then she felt the first stripe of the cane, a line of fire across her bottom. She said, “One, thank you.” Her stepmother had taught her to say this for her more formal beatings, in the house she had left when the prince found her.

That shadow on the ground between her legs is my own hand holding the cane. I’m quite pleased with that.

There was a brief pause. She wished she could see his face. What had he meant by “if you want to stay married”? She loved him. She was his. She felt it in her head, in her heart so much that it hurt, and in her cunt. And now in that pain filled, burning line across her bottom.

“Lift your dress,” he said. The riding crop in his hand rose, as she had seen his penis lift, some hours earlier.

She obeyed, slowly. She never knew, when he was in this mood, whether he was really angry with her or whether he was pretending, to have the pleasure of watching her tremble. That uncertainty excited her as much as the tremor in her voice and the shakiness of her knees so obviously excited him.

She had ample proof of his love for her, in her body, sweetly sore from being taken over and over, and the heat in her poor bottom when at the end he had rolled her onto her hands and knees and mounted her, lashing her on to her pleasure with that wicked leather crop.

The crop lifted, again, in his hand. She thought of his penis, how it had entered her, filled her, stilled her, then made her move, rocking under him, her feet in the air, then resting on his buttocks while he took her. Her pulse raced, and she knew that prickling, trickling sensation between her legs. She blushed. Her fear and desire worked together: they made her ready for him. And she knew that he knew it.

The end of that biting crop pointed at her navel. His voice was hoarse. “Higher!”

Shortly after their marriage the Prince had moved the old pot-bellied stove from the home she had left to the palace. She used to sit by that stove, tending it and keeping it clean, while she boiled the water for washing her sisters’ clothes, and cooked for them, and kept the house warm. Sometimes she’d crouched behind it, small as a mouse, to avoid their blows and their insults.

Now she ate food made and brought by others, from golden platters, and drank wine of liquid gold from goblets carved from giant rubies. She slept in silken sheets on a bed of softest down. She’d complained once, as a joke, that she thought she’d felt a pea under her mattress.

But no-one had laughed. Instead there had been a great fuss, with even the Prince seeming worried, and that night she found they’d replaced the bed with one that was even softer. She never complained again.

She lay on her back, thighs parted, beside her Prince. She’d become used to the Prince’s enthusiasm for her, and his desire to have his cock in her as often, and for as long, as possible. She knew he would stir and reach over for her soon. She loved his love for her.

And yet…

She slipped out of his bed, as she sometimes did, and tiptoed down to the kitchen. She cast off her satin and mink gown, and stood naked for a few minutes, letting the cold and the grime in the air sink into her skin. Then she put on her old dress, all tatters and rips, in which she’d taken so many blows and shed so many tears.

She heard the Prince, upstairs. He had woken, no doubt erect, and found her not beside him. She heard her wardrobe door open and close as he selected something from it, and then she heard his steps, coming down the stairs.

When he found her, in that kitchen, beside its shelf of cookbooks and, strangely, books about the things a man and a woman might do together, he would be roaring, and the riding crop he’d taken from her wardrobe would be twitching in his hand, as though it was hungry for her flesh. She would be rolled in the ash, and welted until she cried, and later she would open her legs, gazing up at him, and cry for his mercy and relief. Then she would be fucked over and over again on that filthy floor, until at last they were sated.

He would call maids to come bathe their mistress, and rub strange Arabian ointments on her new wounds. How the girls would chatter, and wonder that their princess took thrashings that were never visited upon them. She would never explain, though they would sometimes see her smile.

She heard him call her name loudly from just outside the door. She bent over then, touching her toes, so that she offered and he could take, without pausing, everything he most wanted in the world.

Subscribe to My Blog!

There are four posts a week. They tend to be fairly substantial, and either sexy, funny or informative, or some combination thereof.
I'd love to have more subscribers!
You'd love to know when I've posted something new, too!